I slowed, as always reluctant to confront death, and waited until my analytical brain took over.
Ina Jo was still wearing the outfit I’d last seen her in and lying facedown with her arms under her body. Her legs moved gently with the current. The defiant purple streak in her hair now merely looked sad.
“Thank you fellows for waiting.” Clay’s face had turned pale. He took a deep breath and nodded at a gloved crime scene technician.
The technician rolled her over.
Some color returned to Clay’s face.
Mud caked her face, masking her features. Only a glint of silver showed where the silver loop pierced her eyebrow. The slim, blue-and-white braided rope still wrapped around her neck left no doubt as to her fate. Her wrists showed purple-red abrasions.
“Well—” Clay rubbed his nose. “That rules out her jumping in the river as a suicide. That’s a pretty distinctive rope, though. Even a blind hog finds an acorn now and then. Maybe that will give us a lead.”
I frowned at him. When we were at Blanche and Arless’s house, Clay’s accent was far less pronounced and he dropped the quaint country sayings. Trying to fit in? That matched my speculation that he was obsessed with the allure of power.
Clay turned to one of his officers standing nearby. “Billy, you fish here. How far do you think she traveled down the river?”
The young man half shrugged. “Could be she was thrown in as far away as the Pauley Bridge.”
“Yeah. Makes sense.” Clay strolled over to where I was standing. “The Pauley Bridge is around that big bend.” He nodded upstream. “It’s a pedestrian crossing over the river. There are a few other places the killer could have used, but the water’s low right now. If he dumped her on the riverbank and pushed her in, she’d washed up pretty fast.”
“You’ll know a lot more after the autopsy.”
“Yeah. Told ya he was smart, though. Throwing her in the river like that. Water washes off forensic clues.”
I pulled out a small pad of paper and a pencil, then drew a line down the center. On the top of one column I wrote Known, on the other Unknown.
“Are you sketching?” Clay asked.
I turned the pad so he could read what I’d written. “This is how I organize my thoughts. I can figure out the questions I need to ask from this.” Under “Known” I wrote: used rope, woman dressed, strong—
“Why did you write that he was strong?” Clay asked.
“Whether he threw her off the pedestrian bridge or transported her to the bank, he’d have to be able to pick her up and carry her, and she’s not a tiny woman.”
“Sure.”
We strolled up the bank to the car. “Clay, I couldn’t help but notice your reaction before they turned the girl over. You were very pale.”
“Yeah. A lot of years ago my buddies and I were fishing in this river. We found a body. It was facedown and we turned it over. I’ll never forget that face, or what was left of it. The police never identified the body. I . . .” He grinned sheepishly and shrugged. “I hope you won’t mention it. Not good for a cop to be weirded out by dead bodies.”
“It’s understandable.”
He grunted in response.
We’d arrived at the car. Clay got in and started the engine.
I slipped in beside him and looked at my notes. “You know, I was thinking . . . One possibility is the Hillbilly Rapist got spooked when you announced a door-to-door search. Instead of the leisurely several days, he discovered you’d soon be pounding on his door. He needed to get rid of the evidence. Did you announce where you were starting your search?”
Clay didn’t answer, but sat up straighter.
While he concentrated on driving, I added to my Known column: water washes off forensic clues.
I jotted: Is this what the caller meant by “You need to learn to take me seriously”?
“Now what did you think of?” Before I could stop him, Clay grabbed my notebook and read what I’d written. “What’s this? You got another call?” He looked at me, a vein throbbing in his forehead. “And you didn’t think it was important enough to tell me?”
My face burned. “I . . . I—”
He threw the notebook into my lap. “What else did he say?”
“Um. Not much. ‘I told you to leave.’ ”
“You came in to help us with this investigation. I knew bringing in an outsider would be a mistake.”
We were soon at the Campbell house. Clay turned to me. “I’d send you home right now if you hadn’t agreed to help Arless and Blanche.”
Still blushing, I got out of the car and Clay drove away. What could I say to Clay? “I’m suspicious of you”?
Glancing at the house, I spotted a curtain moving on the second floor. Good ole Mrs. Fields was at it again.
In response to my ringing the doorbell, Mrs. Fields opened the door and stepped aside to let me enter.
Blanche breezed in from the living room, phone to her ear. “Hold on.” She put her hand over the receiver. “Ready to go pick up your daughter?”
“Be right there.” Strolling to my bedroom, I threw my sketchbook across the room. I hated being thought of as an outsider and not doing my best work on a case.
Robert’s voice intruded on my thoughts. You’re a failure yet again, getting dumped off the Hillbilly case.
“Go away, Robert,” I whispered.
This isn’t the first time you’ve been thrown off a case either.
“Pouring salt on the wound? I’m perfectly capable of beating myself up without your help.” The whipped-cream topping to this whole goat rodeo would be if Clay were somehow involved and my carelessness led to another woman being hurt. Or killed.
I punched a pillow on the bed for good measure, then picked up the paperback book on Pentecostals that Wellington gave me.
Blanche was waiting in the kitchen, now minus the grumpy chef, and I trailed her to the garage beyond. The raised concrete storage area gave me a clear view of all three bays now occupied with expensive vehicles. A second luxury car had joined the one I’d seen earlier. Blanche walked down the steps and climbed behind the wheel of a carmine-red Porsche Cayenne Turbo. The seats were two-toned natural leather.
I stroked the leather. Even the air smelled rich.
“Are you okay?” Blanche asked, touching my arm with a perfectly manicured finger.
No. Clay wants me off the rape case, I’m broke, and I have cancer again. Robert’s planning on getting full custody of my daughter, I don’t have a home, and to top it all off, I’m green-eyed with envy over this stupid car. I’m probably ugly, fat, and if I had a mother, she’d be dressing me funny. “I’m fine, thank you.”
She handed me a fabric bag imprinted with the name of the Pikeville library. Inside was a small stack of file folders. “That should get you started.”
I added the paperback to the folders. After opening the garage door, we backed out and turned toward Lexington. The earlier sunshine had surrendered to a chill, and wisps of low-hanging, blue-gray clouds clung to the mountains surrounding the town. The leaves on the trees sported Indian yellow, olive green, and a hint of rust. My black mood lifted slightly. I waved my hand toward the mountains. “This is a painting waiting to happen.”
“It is beautiful, isn’t it? I want everyone to see this country the way I do, to love this state the way I love it.” The corners of her mouth turned up slightly and her eyes softened with a wistful look. We drove in appreciative silence for a few miles, watching the autumn landscape unfold.
“I should take up painting,” Blanche finally said. “You can paint almost anywhere, right?”
“Yes, it’s a wonderful hobby, and watercolors are quite portable.” And expensive.
“Mmm.” She nodded.
“Does Arless have a hobby?”
“Sailing. We keep a sailboat at Kentucky Lake.”
Blanche’s cell rang. She answered. “Yes. Okay.” She looked at her watch. “We’ll turn it on. Bye.” She disconnected a
nd dropped her phone into her purse. “Clay said to turn the radio on in about ten minutes. The lead news at the top of the hour.”
“Are they announcing something about the homicide?”
“He didn’t say.” She turned on the radio, found the right station, and lowered the sound so the gentle words of an old-time gospel song formed background music. I thought of Wellington and his research.
“Welcome to the sound of Pikeville, station WXWD. This afternoon we have a special guest here with us in the studio. Sheriff Clayton Reed joins us for some exciting news. Welcome, Sheriff.”
“Thank you.” Clay’s voice sounded tense. “We finally have a lead on the serial rapist, the so-called Hillbilly Rapist, preying on women here in Pikeville. A composite sketch, made from a video surveillance image, led us to Jason Morrow, an employee of the county’s animal control. We’ve put out a warrant for his arrest.”
“Jason Morrow!” I exclaimed. “Poor Mrs. Fields.” I really hoped she wouldn’t blame me.
“So your sketch artist was able—”
“It was good police work. The artist was threatened several times and someone put a rattlesnake in her bed. Only the Hillbilly Rapist would care if a forensic artist worked on this case, and when I viewed the security tapes, I saw Morrow bringing the snake to the hotel.”
“Have you linked Morrow directly to the rapes?”
“Ah . . . I’m not at liberty to say. As for the sketch artist, as a matter of fact, she’s no longer connected with the sheriff’s department.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I WASN’T SURPRISED. CLAY SEEMED FURIOUS AT my not telling him about the phone call. But something he said bothered me a lot. I just couldn’t put my finger on it.
Blanche turned off the radio. “What’s that all about?”
Blanche and Clay were friends. I had to be very careful what I said. “It’s a . . . misunderstanding.”
“Not to worry. Sounds like Clay caught the rapist, so your work there is done. You can now concentrate on our project of sketching and identifying the snake handlers.” She took her eyes off the road for a moment and glanced at me. “Breathe, Gwen.”
I gripped the stack of file folders in my lap.
“This all might work out.” She nodded to herself. “Yes. This might be the break we need.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“You need to find a way to be invited to the snake-handling revival. Ruby and Elijah know, because of the sketch you gave them, that you work with the sheriff’s department. They’re going to be super cautious of you. Clay distancing himself from you helps. What if . . .” She thought for a moment. “What if you tell them at the funeral that you’re in trouble for giving them the sketch? Ask for it back, then offer to do a portrait of their son. We’ll pay you extra for the drawing, of course. Set it up so the only time you can meet with them to do the sketch is during the revival.”
I pulled a pencil out of my purse and twirled it in my fingers. “I’m not sure . . .”
“Because it’s well known that Arless introduced the legislation to increase the fines and jail time for snake handlers, obviously you won’t be able to stay with us.”
“But all the rooms in town are taken.”
“We have something better. Remember that cabin we mentioned the other night? Back when Arless and I were first married, and before we built our home, we bought a cabin here in Pikeville. Well, actually not in town, but nearby. It’s simple, but does have electricity and running water.”
“Won’t folks know you own it?”
“No. The paperwork just lists an LLC and we’ve never actually lived there. We also have an old pickup you can drive. Mrs. Fields will pack your clothes and send them with Trish and Tom. The two of them offered to straighten up the cabin and stock it with groceries. You’ll be able to move in when we get back from the airport.”
I clenched my teeth thinking about Mrs. Fields touching my things. “Thank you, but—”
“I’ll call Arless just before we get to Coal Run Village and he’ll meet us or get someone to drive over with the truck.”
I wanted to point out that I wasn’t convinced Clay had arrested the right man. If not, whoever had been threatening me was still out there. And I was picking up my daughter. “I’ll do this on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You can tell no one where I am. That includes Clay.”
“Some people already know, but I’ll make sure everyone who’s aware of your whereabouts keeps it a secret from Clay and anyone else, if that’s what it takes.”
A hot flash shot up my neck and onto my face. I ducked my head, then opened the top file for something to do while it passed. A black-and-white photograph of a rawboned man, mouth open, holding a large snake, was clipped to the inside. A missing person’s report, a single sheet of paper, was enclosed.
MISSING PERSON REPORT
TYPE OF MISSING PERSON:
___ Disability
___ Juvenile
_X_ Involuntary
_X_ Endangered
___ Other
Name: Maynard, Grady Earl Sex: M Race: W DOB: May 20, 1958 Height: 6'1" Weight: 185 Hair: Brown Eyes: Blue
Scars/tattoos: Left index finger missing tip, scar on right arm
Employment: CAS Coal Corporation (dozer operator), Church of the Lord Jesus with Signs Following (pastor)
Home address: 54637 Pine Ridge Holler, Pikeville, KY
Last seen: Disappeared around October 31, 1996
I checked the back of the form. Blank. “This is it? Nothing on the type of vehicle he owned, who filled this out, anything?”
“I didn’t think you were investigating Grady.”
“Sorry. Sometimes I get carried away. What does this mean—disappeared?”
“He worked for a coal mine. Most folks believe he went in a slurry pond.”
“What’s a slurry pond?”
“It’s an area where the coal waste products are impounded. It’s a bit like quicksand. If you happened to fall in, your body would never be found.”
I licked my lips. “So. Yet another Pikeville resident buried alive.”
Blanche jerked on the steering wheel and the car swerved. “Sorry. I’d never heard it expressed like that before. Grady Maynard started the snake-handling church in Pikeville. When he disappeared, everyone thought the church would simply dissolve.”
“But that didn’t happen.”
“Right. Then when Arless got the law changed, we again expected the group to go away, but it went underground. And the members became even more prone to drink poison, burn themselves, and handle serpents. Indirectly, Grady also was the reason Arless and I became so involved in stomping out the practice.” She tapped the paper on my lap. “We didn’t know it at the time, but the cabin we bought, the one you’ll be staying in, was Grady’s home.”
Several hours later Blanche dropped me off in front of Arrivals, then headed over to the parking lot set up for cell phone calls. The arrival/departure screen informed me Aynslee’s flight was on time. I strolled toward security. The crowds were thick with families holding Welcome Home signs, boyfriends with wrapped bouquets, and distraught mothers with crying babies.
I spotted my daughter almost immediately. Her long ginger hair hung in spiral curls halfway down her back, and her cheeks were flushed with excitement. Her face appeared, then disappeared in the milling passengers coming out of security. I raised my arm so she could find me in the crowd. She saw me and waved with a new smartphone with a pink bling cover.
She finally cleared the throng and I could see her clearly. Her jeans were ripped and shredded all the way up the front, exposing a large amount of leg and thigh. Her black T-shirt stopped a good two inches from her hip-high jeans, revealing her belly button and an expanse of tanned stomach. Open-toed sandals and a large backpack completed the look.
What was Robert thinking? I’d seen bathing suits less revealing.
I hugged her. My vision blurr
ed and I swallowed down the lump in my throat. She may have been half naked, but she was my beautiful, half-naked daughter.
“Mom! Let go. I can’t breathe.”
I released her.
“Gosh, Mom, it’s only been a couple of days.”
“Well, I’m happy you’re here. Where did you get the . . . new clothes?”
“Caroline bought them for me. And the phone.”
I clenched my fist, then made an effort to relax my hand. My ex-husband’s new wife would get a phone call when I got back. “She saw you wearing this? And let you go out in public—”
“Whatever. I’m hungry.”
Glancing around the airport, I could see only one restaurant. “How about we get your bags, then see if Blanche will take us somewhere to eat.”
“Who’s Blanche?” She fell into step beside me as we ambled to baggage claim.
“Long story.” Something chirped. Then another chirp.
“What’s that sound?”
“I got some texts.” She continued to walk with me, eyes now glued to the phone, thumb giving a flipping motion on the screen. She stopped flipping, read for a moment, then started texting.
We stopped away from the baggage claim carousel so I could catch her up on the events of the past few days without anyone overhearing. She kept her head down, cradling the phone, thumbs flying.
A loud horn sounded and the carousel started. The passengers surged forward. We remained stationary, like rocks in a human stream, with Aynslee’s gaze riveted on her cell.
“And in three days,” I finally said to her bent head, “I’m turning into a rutabaga, going to Paris, and will be performing opera onstage. La bohème.”
“That’s ridiculous.” She didn’t look up.
“I was just seeing if you were listening to me.”
“Whatever.”
“So what did I just tell you?”
She finally looked up and rolled her eyes. “You said we’re going to hang out with a bunch of people who worship snakes. I was texting Mattie about it.”
Mattie was the young girl we’d rescued from the streets, drugs, and prostitution. She now lived with her aunt.
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